love isn't silly at all
by coffee-stained lips
Summary: Some people wanna fill the world with silly love songs. / Happy Valentine's Day. Assorted Pairings. Oneshot.


**After I saw the Valentine's Day episode, all I've wanted to do was write a collection of oneshots, so I'm doing these drabbles for all couples represented. Forgive me, I'm not quite that good at this style, as I have expressed otherwise, but I do hope you like what you read somewhat – and I'm sorry to say some of the better drabbles in here in my opinion are couples I don't even **_**like**_**, but have to represent because they were in the episode, and vice versa for the ones I do enjoy. Ah, the pains of being a writer.**

**Disclaimer: I own none of the lyrics/characters/events in here. They belong rightfully to Paul McCartney (title), Styx, Travis Tritt, Radiohead, Sara Barielles, Frank Sinatra, Roberta Flack, Whitney Houston, and the Police.**

_some people wanna fill the world with silly love songs..._

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_what can i do, pictures of you still make me cry_; finn/quinn

He feels on top of the world sometimes – it's a good feeling to be the it-guy, the one who all worship like a new god in a weird religion. Before, it had been the entire school's devotion. Then glee club's. And now he's got _both_. There's nothing better.

But for all the men in the world who said they'd stay modest after fame, Finn Hudson cannot stand among them – and for all the women in the world who said they'd stay faithful to their one love, Quinn Fabray cannot stand with them either.

It's so strange to see her walk down the halls with pride in the sundresses (the _ohsobeautiful_ sundresses). He's only ever seen pride – not true pride, really, but a taste of _power_ – in the shape of a white-and-red skirt and too-tight tank around a curvaceous figure –

_He must stop this now._

He knows within his heart (which is still two sizes too big for his own good, just like his newfound ego) that this is so _fricking wrong_. Sam is his best friend, at least now, and Quinn's his girlfriend, even though she was his first: his first kiss, first love, the first girl he could touch on the hips and the legs and the face –

_She is not his anymore._

But since when has that stopped her?

And now he lies with a disease in his throat, watching the curtain through sleepy eyes, hoping she'll magically reappear, or that this'll all be just some sick nightmare and he'll wake up to Kurt in the bed beside him hugging throw pillows, and then he'll get him some warm milk to settle his stomach – but the shiver (_from a different disease, it'scalledlustbabe_) on his pink lips is too real to be another dream of what-once-was or what-could-have-been, and he knows that the very second that ashen-gray skirt disappeared behind the curtain was the very second he lost her again.

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_i'm tired of pretending i don't love you anymore_; rachel/finn

She doesn't quite get over him.

(Statement of the year, right?)

It's not as though she isn't trying – oh goodness gracious, she's trying with all her strength. She strays from romantic movies, novels, songs, tries to collect her old passion and move it into her music, but he keeps interrupting her thoughts like an annoying buzzing bug. She lost him, lost him through her stupidity and jealously (_and love_), lost him because _she didn't trust him_. And now all she does is choke down low-fat yogurt in her bedroom and cries into the pink cup, and asks herself _why, why, why? Why so stupid, Rachel? Why so stupid, stupid, s t u p i d?_

She just couldn't get Santana's smirking face off her retinas; it was burned so far in that her eyes would swell with irritation so often she actually went to the eye doctor for new contacts. She isn't used to losing, and losing him – it's far worse than losing a star on the Hollywood Boulevard.

(And _that's_ sure saying something.)

And then, after she's tried sososo _hard_ not to cave, all she gets is one lousy kiss on the cheek, and then he has to go and make her fall in love with him again by giving her a late Christmas gift that once meant something, but is now stained with broken hearts and longing (but she can't stop wearing it).

You know what kills her most though? That even when he loved her, he never loved her like he loved _the other one_ _(theprettyblondeone)._ He never saw the fireworks. So appropriately she sings a song with that in the title with so much love and zeal because she was taught music makes everything better, but inside she's breaking, falling apart.

(Her life is so messed-up.)

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_you're just like an angel, your skin makes me cry_; sam/quinn

The first word when he saw her? _Angel._

Because angels have that fair skin and those glowing blonde curls, right? They wear long white dresses and have button noses and are the most beautiful creatures not on earth, right?

And she is the definition of beautiful – he believes if one were to open a dictionary, a full-color picture of her (because she doesn't deserve anything less) would be next to the word, with the description _1. Wonderful; very pleasing, or satisfying_ above her head and _2. Quinn Fabray; also see terrific, amazing, glorious, angelic, etc_ below.

When he first saw her he knew they had to be together: seriously, she was Head Cheerio, he was quarterback, and they were both pretty and blonde. Win-win situation. But then he sang with her, and he felt her, and he kissed her, and he realized they weren't _perfect together_ because the status quo made them to be; they were perfect together because they were meant for each other.

He worried about competing with her baby's daddy, but she didn't show anything other than love for _him_. And, truthfully, while he had the abs and the hair and the voice, he never had a great girl. With Quinn, though, _god_, he's – he's not a boy anymore. He's a _man_. He doesn't want to lose that angel.

But as he says, he may be pretty, but he's not dumb; he sees the sideways glimpses between her and Finn. He feels the sexual tension at a boiling point in glee with them, and it mounts and mounts until he can just tell it's not Valentine's Day getting the best of them. (And he opens his eyes a tiny bit when they kiss, and he catches her hazel gaze _justaninch_ past his, trained on some other guy's helplessly black, non-Bieber hair.)

He tries to ignore it; he tries to reel her back in, get her to look at him more. He kisses her tenderly on her bed (fully clothed, the only way she'll have it) and whispers sweet nothings into her ear, but they all say something hidden:

"I love you." _I need you._

"I miss you." _Don't go let go of me._

"Stay with me." _Don't go to him when I'm gone._

"Where were you?" _Were you with him?_

All the answers are so gruesome to imagine, and he shivers as he thinks of his best friend's lips all over his girlfriend.

He watches them at the kissing booth – chaperone, he says (protective boyfriend who'll beat your face in, he thinks) – and thankfully it's just a peck. Just a peck to get him riled up, jealous, and then he takes her in his arms, leads her away, and she's a breath of fresh air as her lips hit his.

(He sees fireworks, can she?

He guesses no.)

Then he's a rocking pile of hair gel and tears and _oh, the humanity_, she's got fricking mono – from _him._ _He_ hurt her – _he_ kissed her. (She kissed him, Sam, she kissed him.) He tries to visit but the nurse says no, and he wants to run wild on a rampage, stomp in there and punch Finn's life out of him even though he knows deep down Quinn wanted Finn first.

When he sees her sashaying down the hall to her car, he runs up and he tries to hold her (_butshepusheshimaway_). She says "I'm sick, don't kiss me" but inside it's "I love Finn, not you." And after that she's in her mother's car, he's standing alone amidst yellow lockers, and then he can't take it anymore; he crashes against the lockers and swears to god he'll never love anyone again as long as he lives.

(He curses the devil who masqueraded as an angel.)

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_i'm not gonna write you a love song_; lauren/puck

Well, it's certainly unexpected.

He had always gone around like a king, taking girls home to forget their names in the morning, and he never missed a single trim, long-haired beauty in his life (he even got president of the Celibacy Club, Catholic schoolgirl Quinn Fabray – and she was dating his best friend. He probably shouldn't act so proud). If there had ever been a guy shallower than him, he was long dead by now; to Puck, there was nothing more important about a girl than her voluptuous legs and deliciously high skirts and – you get the picture.

So of course he knocks his head against the wall a few good times when the only girl he could think about was _Lauren fricking Zizes_.

He can't help it: she tastes like honey and Cadbury eggs. He never thought he'd find anything sweeter than the taste of coconut lip-gloss, and he figured she would taste like anything but, but as fate would have it she's so much better at this janitor's closet make-out thing than Santana or Brittany – _combined_.

And you know what really turns him on? The rejection.

Seriously, he's _Puckasaurus_; he gets anything in a miniskirt, even Hummel, he thinks, to look his way, and he gets his choice whenever. But to Lauren Zizes, his hotness meter just crumbles into rubble because she won't even look him in the eye. She's not like Santana, who'll go all teenage dream on you if you ask. She demands romance, the good kind.

So he gives her a heart-shaped box of candy – she eats it all, gives back nothing. He sings her a song – she storms out angry. He gives her a ring-pop – she stands him up. (What's a dude to do?)

But he can't give _up_ on this chick. Every day she just makes him fall head over heels more and more until he starts to – oh god, he prays no one will hear this – feel like he's _in love with her_. He's never gotten that heart-pounding exhilaration (it's all in-the-moment, then skip the morning after) when a girl walks by, he's never daydreamed about chocolaty kisses, he's never – _evereverever_ – been stood up. _Ever._

But, you know, he's Puckasaurus, and eventually his charisma just can't be resisted any more – or so he likes to think. He sits with her at Breadstix, _as friends_, but all he wants to do is run his hand up and down her leg and kiss her Cadbury-and-honey-flavored lips until his skin grows hot and his hair burns off his head (_thinkofthemailman_).

So, okay, maybe they're friends now, maybe they'll just have sweet dinners with glee friends on the weekends, but mark his words: what Puckasaurus wants, Puckasaurus gets.

And if Puckasaurus wants Lauren Zizes in the janitor's closet with a carton of Cadbury chocolate eggs in her back pocket, heck yeah he'll have it.

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_stay, little valentine, stay_; tina/mike

She can't seem to fathom how she fell for him in the first place – they were always on two different sides of the spectrum, even after glee came. She was quiet, mousy; he was vibrant, colorful. She can see now how she could've fallen for him, but she was so blindsided by Artie's sweet kisses and she figured Mike was her cousin anyway, despite the (not so) obvious distinction he was Chinese and she was Korean.

(But, eh, what you gonna do?)

And now all she thinks about is _MikeMikeMike_ and when she closes her eyes she sees the way he dances, sees his abs rippling from under his shirt and the way his anime-style black hair sticks up like static; sometimes, when she sleeps, she dreams about his taste and touch, how his slender arms expertly curve around her waist, and he's so _experienced_ at this dating stuff but he never does anything she's never seen before or doesn't know how to do (he just does the stuff she knows _better_).

You'd think it'd be awkward too, wouldn't you, to see her old and new boyfriend serenading her and her ex's girlfriend, but when she looks into his dark eyes as he jumps up and down in rhythm to Artie's voice she realizes there's _no_ awkwardness required because there's _no way_ she'll fall out of love with _Mike Chang_.

And like the geek she is she tries to recreate his magnitude in song and just bursts into tears (_ohgodherchestisboundtoexplode_) – then before you know it, of course he is the first one there to gather her up like a child in his slim arms and rock her back and forth, murmuring "_I love you, Tina_" into her ear as soft as possible, and his voice rings like wind chimes in the summertime (give him a darn solo, Schue, she thinks whenever he's passed up).

"I'm such an idiot." she whispers as they all walk out, laughing and holding hands with whomever. He wraps an arm around her waist and presses his lips against her silky purple-and-black tendrils, whispering "But you're _my_ beautiful idiot, valentine." She just smiles and makes his lips go down _justalittlebit_ until they're getting yelled at for showing what they like to call public displays of affections, but lately she couldn't care less.

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_like the trembling heart of a captive bird_; blaine/jeremiah

He's always had a sort of problem with going too fast: he leaps into things at the first moment and swims deep into treacherous waters, not expecting to need a paddle. You may think someone like him – suave, gentlemanly, kind, compassionate, a great guy (_with great hair and eyes and smile and voice_) – would never do any wrong in any shape or form. You may think he'd be the epitome of perfection. But like with everyone, he has a flaw.

He loves love too much.

He always enjoys renting love stories from Blockbuster and listening to classic love songs, and writing some of his own, but no matter how many times he watches _Casablanca_ or _The Way We Were_, all he feels is lonely. It doesn't help that he's gay in a town as small as Lima where the population of "his kind" is about two percent – even that sounds high. So when he gets that first taste of a chance he can't keep himself from chewing through his leash of common sense.

He meets him a week before Valentine's Day, maybe less than that. He's finished up Warbler practice, and goes into the Gap to purchase some blue polka-dotted socks for his little sister that she said she thought were cute when he sees _him_. The curly blonde hair and ragged jeans and hoodie; the way he keeps touching the microphone on his ear and talking to nobody; his blue eyes are little pools Blaine could drown in.

He goes up to him, asks to buy the socks (_stumblingtumblingoverhiswords_), and he runs it through. Blaine catches his nametag: Jeremiah. What a beautiful name.

It's a day later when he goes to the mall again and _Jeremiah_ is on his lunch break in the nearby coffeehouse. He stops the car and pulls into the parking lot, casually swaggering past the blonde-haired boy as though he can't see him at all.

(But he is _all_ he sees.)

"Oh, hey!" he says after he's gotten his coffee and "bumped accidentally" into Jeremiah. "Fancy seeing you here! Remember me, from the Gap?" Jeremiah's eyes light up like stars as he nods.

"Ah, yeah," he says, pointing Blaine's way, "Blue Polka-dot Sock Guy." Blaine laughs (_laughslaughslaughs_) and invites himself to sit across the table. Jeremiah and he get to discussing how he saw Blaine in the glee club sectionals when he went to see his grandmother perform, and thought he was fantastic.

"_Fantastic_?" Blaine says, "You're too much, Jer." He doesn't have any true right to awarding him the nickname but he's melted into the moment like water through cracks in the pavement, and all he can see against his eyes is _Jeremiah_ and it's such a prettypretty name for such a prettypretty person.

"Nah, man, you have talent," he says, shrugs. "You're pretty cute too. Bet all the ladies dig you." Blaine stutters as his brain short-circuits,

"I'm gay." Jeremiah grins.

"Me too. Hey, gotta run – work." And with that Blaine is head over heels.

And since it's been four days since he was last at the Gap and last saw his Jeremiah, Blaine figures it's the perfect time to proclaim his undying devotion. He gathers up all the Dalton Warblers and after some persuasion from Kurt (Kurt is such a great guy), he is able to sing his heart out. Jeremiah mustn't recognize him because he keeps walking away like Blaine is some kind of stalker (_say what?_) so Blaine has to follow. It takes a little time before he realizes Jeremiah is just playing hard-to-get which is _very_ attractive.

But then afterwards he's twiddling his thumbs on the bench, Kurt squished against his side (_alittleclosetherebuddy_), wondering if he overdid it – he's prone to overreacting, overdoing things when he's emotional, and he frankly doesn't want to botch up his future by the stupid decision. Kurt reassures him of its loveliness but Blaine isn't quite sure.

And then in a blazing yellow light that only he can see, _Jeremiah_ walks out of the Gap with a sulky expression that puts a large damper on his handsomeness. When he sees him Blaine pops up, smiling his award-winning smile (_justkeepsmiling_) in hopes that sulky expression doesn't mean anything. (But he can tell it means everything.)

He can't imagine anybody would utter the words Jeremiah does. No one knows he's gay? His openness about that may stem from his natural overconfidence, but the mere thought of someone not proud of that is unfathomable, and he can't say anything as Jeremiah talks; he wants to apologize, but he isn't sorry. He isn't sorry how he confessed his love – he wishes he'd done it in a more low-key way, or in private, but he doesn't regret doing it. However, if he'd known it'd lose him any chance of love with Jeremiah, he might've talked himself out of it.

(He tries to assure himself the shocking age difference would've kept him at bay anyhow, but all he feels is that it's _his fault_.)

He hates love.

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_and i will always love you_; kurt/blaine

His notebook is ravaged with spilt blue ink, traced expertly into thick lines of hearts and arrows and two little names that seem so infinitesimal to the world, but inside him they scream louder than anyone else's. It almost makes him sick, in a good way, when he sits down in that plush armchair and opens the notebook said to be for Chemistry and finds doodles of two boys in blue-and-red blazers with Ds stitched on their breast pockets, one with a crude nose and wispy hair, the other with bright shining eyes, dimpled chin, and dark hair that glimmers over loose-leaf paper.

He continually tells himself to keep these crushes (_obsessions_) to a minimum, but in a matter of days this Blaine thing spirals into another Finn fiasco and he has to keep himself from touching Blaine's shoulder all the time and his laughs at unfunny jokes short.

And even as he tries to blame it on the Valentine's Day air, he felt the same way under ornamented trees at Christmas and the first time he heard "Teenage Dream" a cappella. He can't help it, he's in tumultuous, savage _love._

(Which is okay now, because the guy is actually gay.)

Walking through the mall at Blaine's side, going into the heart-studded coffeehouse and ridiculing tacky Valentine's Day decorations, he gets a sense of bliss sprinkle down on him like rainfall. Blaine laughs at his disgust toward the ornamental hearts and red-and-pink-and-white puppies, and suddenly he's launched into a discussion on his plans for his sweetheart. Kurt's heart flutters – he tells himself to calm down, they met less than a few months ago, but who could Blaine be talking about other than him?

So he allows Blaine's hand to engulf his hand and lead him into an emergency gathering of the Dalton Academy Warblers, and encourages the council (or whatever they are) to let Blaine sing to his sweetie in the Gap. Reluctantly, they agree, and as they ask why the Gap Kurt waits for Blaine's eyes to flicker toward him and his lips curl up handsomely.

And then the bomb.

Now he's singing to this guy he's never met with an atrocious perm for the boy he loves to snatch him up. He takes it with a stiff upper lip because he can see the way Blaine is looking at this guy, following him around and laying his heart on his sleeve before a bunch of workers and shoppers (_and it's the way he looks at him_). He doesn't want to mess up Blaine's chance because he loves him and he'll act as the lamb led to slaughter for the sake of a good Valentine's Day for the boy he's madly in love with who is madly in love with somebody else.

He almost feels guilty for being so ecstatic later on when Jeremiah rejects Blaine, and hates how he's tempted to do something – _anything_ – while Blaine is so defenseless as he hugs his friend (_maybelover_) close against his chest and breathes in the pleasing smell of old fabric wafting from Blaine's blazer. It hurts (_hurtssofrickingmuch_) to see Blaine in such a trembling, heartbroken state; hurts to see him spit at the hearts draped on windows when he used to love them so; hurts to be unable to bandage up his heart with his own. He's never been good at love: with Finn there was so much pressure and anxiety and awkwardness until all the tension boiled up and exploded, leaving a shattered remnant of a heart. Kurt doesn't want that to happen _ever_ again, and that's why he shouldn't do anything about it with Blaine.

He doesn't follow his common sense. No, pointblank he just says it straight out, _I want you, I love you_. And what, he expected bells to chime as Blaine collapsed into his arms with undying devotion like some demented fairytale, because it doesn't work like that (especially not for Kurt Hummel). And all he wants to do is bang his head against the wall and rip that notebook into itty-bitty pieces of torn blue hearts and blue boys holding hands.

But there's hope, he feels, as the swelling awkwardness dies down soon with one fast-paced coffee order, and before he knows it they're best friends again and singing before a bunch of lovey-dovey Breadstix patrons. He catches Rachel and Mercedes, Mike and Tina, and he feels overcome with joy at the friends he has alongside Blaine. And then, of course, he looks at Blaine and he sees stars in his eyes (_he falls in love once, twice, thrice_), and so maybe they aren't boyfriends yet, maybe, but he feels those vibrations (and Blaine can feel them too) and as their shoulders touch _everohso_slightly, he knows he'll be drawing more in that notebook.

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_every little thing she does is magic_; artie/brittany

They don't make sense, none whatsoever. They're like water and vinegar, unable to see eye-to-eye, or two elements mixing in a Bunsen burner that swirl around dangerously, and he thinks they're bound to explode at any second in a cloud of toxic all over their lives. But simultaneously her tiny hand fits into the mold of his glove perfectly, and he tingles at the sensation of her hair brushing his face when they kiss, and he thinks _there's nobody better for me to walk down these halls with_.

He wakes up certain days and sees that photograph of themselves at Christmas eating homemade cookies (that weren't so good but he ate them anyway), and thinks he must still be asleep because there's no way Brittany S. Pierce is his; but then he's rolling down to the bus stop and she scurries on up to him, ponytail swinging back and forth as a blonde pendulum, shimmering in the winter/spring/autumn/summer (_oh, she's beautiful in every season_) sun, and he realizes it's not some midnight snack-induced nightmare, it's the real thing, which is so terrifying.

And she sobs into his shoulder about not being a Cheerio anymore and how he probably won't love her anymore, but he caresses the small of her back, kisses her long locks (no ponytail anymore – _helikesitbetterthisway_), and promises her he'll always love her, uniform or not. Just to prove it he makes sure he picks the best, most romantic Michael Jackson number he's ever heard and sings it straight to her.

(So what if he's not mirroring the legendary dance moves and hopping from foot to foot, he's the _singer_, gosh darn it, and she can't resist his sound.)

She wraps her arms around his neck during the Warblers' performance Valentine's Night (Day would no longer be the appropriate term), and purrs "This is our song, baby" into his ear; he starts to shiver with excitement at the way she says this and he loves the way she slides her hand down to feel the fabric of his sweater vest (she's not dirty, she likes the feel; apparently it feels soft like beaver fur).

And he looks around the restaurant, his heart dropping at the sight of how many people are alone or just with friends. It's then he realizes _he's_ the one – the freaky, undesirable wheelchair boy – with a gorgeous girlfriend who can't resist him and who gives him giant valentine cards that resemble the work of seven-year-olds and who believes in Santa Claus still, and the only word to describe how he feels is _lucky_.

"I think I might love you," he mutters, and he senses her lips smiling (_thatprettyprettysmile_) against his cheek.

"I know I love you back." she says. And that pitter-patter in his chest as she says this reminds him he's alive.

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_and what's wrong with that? i'd like to know_

**o.o So yeah that was probably cr*p (gotta censor for the kids). If you read it all I thank you, and have a Happy Valentine's Day! As Blaine says, it is the best holiday! (As a dorky side-note, happy belated birthday to Darren Criss! I adore you, Darren! And no, that's not just the dorky Klaine shipper talking, **_**Harry**_**)**

**And scene.**


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